Prague September 5th 2073
by Rainmaker221
Summary: Three events defined Allen Mark's career with the CIA, Kiev, Moscow, Prague. One night, he gets just drunk enough to spill the beans about Prague. (Part 4.5 of the Long Life Lived series)
1. Chapter 1

"So, I gotta ask, what's with the bandana?" Piper asked, nursing a beer as cold as Dugout Inn could make it.

"It's a long story." Allen responded lightheartedly.

The day prior, Allen had been given permission from Desdemona to take a leave of absence from the Railroad. Contrary to the ideal, Allen had priorities beyond being "The Operative."

"I am actually curious about this myself," Curie added, "You have had it for as long as I have known you."

"Longer," Deacon piped up, "Near as I can figure, he came out of the vault with the damn thing."

"Not quite." Allen shrugged. "There's a safe in my home, the best money can buy, it had this -" he held up the bandana, "A knife, a 9MM, and a few other keepsakes."

"You have keepsakes?" Piper asked, sounding more surprised than needed.

"Don't sound so shocked," Allen said defensively, "I'm practical, not dead inside."

"So, why's a skull bandana worth getting sentimental over?" Deacon asked, trying to return the conversation to the original point.

Allen returned the bandana to his pocket, "Like I said, a long story. The short version is that this was a part of my cover ID once upon a time."

"So, why'd you'd keep it?" Deacon prodded, draining the last of his beer, "There are probably easier keepsakes to keep, or more useful."

"Probably," Allen admitted, "But again, long story. I learned a valuable lesson wearing this bandana."

"Which was?" Curie asked.

"People change," Allen said, "Sometimes a moral compass goes from a something pure to a fucking roulette wheel, sometimes their loyalties change or disappear entirely, others..." Allen gestured to himself, "Sometimes the fire in others die, they lose the will to fight, go from wanting to bring peace to the world to just wanting peace of mind. Sometimes they settle down, get married and start thinking about kids."

Deacon knew better than to pry. "That does sound like a long story," he said, clasping Allen on the shoulder. "Anyway, I'm bushed. Gonna go hit the hay." He stood up and made his way to the room they had rented there at the inn.

Curie wasn't versed well enough to understand that a lot went unsaid.

"People do change, monsieur, but sometimes for the better." She yawned before continuing, "Unfortunately, my changes require sleep. Dormez bien."

She, too, made her way to the rented room, which left Piper and Allen, sitting side by side at the bar.

"I suppose it would be too much to hope that that answer satisfied you?" Allen said quietly.

"It would," Piper confirmed with a nod, "But I'll drop it if you ask me to."

Allen downed the rest of drink, slamming it onto the bar with relieved sigh "Ah, fuck it," he relented, "I'm drunk enough."

Piper did her best to conceal her grin.

"Have you heard of the Czech Republic?"

"No," Piper shook her head "were they important to the war?"

"Not really," he shrugged, "Ya see…"

* * *

To some of the world, the war prior to the bombs falling was giant dick waving contest between America and China and was decidedly "not my business."

For a while, places like Amsterdam, Rio de Janeiro, and Dublin were seen as sanctuary from the war.

You could go there and the war would become this far away thing, but with that safety came its own dangers.

Because, you see, these places became Nexuses for tradecraft. Spies on the run, spies on the hunt, spies in deep cover. Throw a rock from a tall building in Zurich and you've thrown it over at least one spy's head.

Now, on the whole, spies were pretty good at keeping their covert ops...well covert. After all, the CIA and KGB both had a vested interest in keeping Istanbul standing.

Until Prague.

On September 5th 2073, Prague was the center of a battle, as far as the rest of the world knew, the various gun runners, drug cartels, slave traders, and terrorist factions had for some reason picked Prague as a good place to hash it out.

The balance of power in the world's black market was shifted dramatically, most control fell into the hands of one group. The American media referred to them as "Reapers," due to the trademark black skull bandanas of their foot soldiers. However, Agent Marks preferred the title "Ferryman," granted by the Greeks.

For the rest of the world, Prague symbolized the day that nowhere was safe. You were either safe from the war, or lived in fear of the criminal class.

But for the KGB, CIA, and any intelligence outfit worth their salt, Prague represented something so much more:

The day the CIA almost fell, the day the Reds almost gained the upper hand. But rather than bring an end to the intelligence war, the CIA rose, more powerful than ever.


	2. Chapter 2

The battle of Prague was inevitable, all things considered; covert ops can only be covert for so long.

But, perhaps less pretentiously phrased, Prague appeared on the horizon sixteen weeks prior with an operative named Finch who was in the hills of Colombia.

Operative Finch was checking in on the listening posts of South America, various stations in remote locations that monitored coms traffic. These stations were beyond secret and the only people who knew the exact locations of them were the people stationed there, the people that put them there, and the operatives keeping them alive.

It had been fairly standard. That's how it started, of course, standard. It was always standard.

Until it wasn't.

According to Finch's report, he arrived at the listening post business as usual. Shortly thereafter, the station came under fire. It wasn't an opportunistic stumble-upon either - no, this was a coordinated for when a post has been compromised was to destroy it and run.

Not many know exactly what happened next, but what the CIA did figure out was that Finch shot the station attendants and made his way back to the CIA with the station intel.

Something that got lost in the sheer weight of the com traffic were the orders to attack the station. It wasn't Colombian military, but it definitely wasn't friendly.

And it had everybody Stateside nervous.

* * *

"These outposts are nine different kinds of classified," Marion said, slamming his hand onto the table, "How could it be compromised?"

"It's not _how_ that worries me," Operative Finch added, "It's _who_? Who could have the reach to compromise our security?"

"I've got that covered," an analyst, Friedman, piped up from his terminal, "I've been combing through the data, I think I've figured it out."

"Well don't keep us in suspense," Lynch said, "Who was it?"

Friedman tapped a few keys and brought up a file, "I'm reasonably certain it was a fringe militia called 'Espada del Destino."

Agent Marks frowned and said, "Sounds dramatic."

"If you say so," Friedman shrugged. "They're a religious cult who believe anarchy is the true fate of mankind and all government is an affront to mankind's nature."

"I think that qualifies as dramatic," Agent Marks repeated, "What are their resources, are they a threat?"

"Here's the thing," Friedman began to explain, "Up until recently, they've been desolate and harmless, latest intel suggests that Finch and the attendants should have been able to repel an attack from them."

"That wasn't what attacked us," Finch countered, "There was no way the three of us were getting out alive with the intel."

"So you killed them and took the intel," Lynch chastised, "Which you and I are going to have a very pointed conversation about later."

"We needed the intel," Finch replied.

"You killed two of our own." Lynch said, venom dripping from every word, "We don't do that."

"We do when it's necessary," Marion reminded, "Given the intel, it seems necessary."

"I'm not convinced," Lynch argued, "One group got some funding and got lucky, this isn't worth panicking over."

Friedman spoke again. "In our cell."

"What's that mean?" asked Agent Marks.

"The analysts from the other cells and I have been working on something," Friedman told him, "More and more outposts are being discovered, more and more agents are being outed. Until today everything just seemed like luck."

"What's so different about today?" Marion asked.

"This outpost was designed to only be found by those that know where it is," Friedman explained, "If anyone knew where it was it would be troublesome, but a fringe militia? Who are suddenly more powerful than ever?"

"This suggests organization," Agent Marks deduced., "Planning, funding, and knowledge of the inner workings of the CIA."

"So what, we've been infiltrated?" Lynch scoffed.

"Or hacked, or someone turned traitor," Operative Finch said, "Either way we have one option."

"Are we certain?" Agent Marks added, "We can only pull this trigger once."

"Finch is right," Marion affirmed, "The CIA has been compromised, we have no idea what operations are valid anymore." He reached for the phone. "I'll get the word out, we're activating the Prometheus Protocol."

* * *

"What's the Prometheus Protocol?" Piper asked, interrupting Allen's story.

"A little something we kept in case of emergencies," Allen answered cryptically, "The thing about spies is that they're only useful if the enemy doesn't know they're spies."

"With you so far," Piper said, prodding Allen along with a wave of her hand.

"The Prometheus Protocol was created for a time when CIA covers were compromised."

"So, what was the plan?"

"Every agent had a cover, something that only they and their agency contact knew," Allen began, "The contacts varied from agent to agent, sometimes it was an analyst or a CO, but it was always someone the agent trusted implicitly."

"Who was your contact?" Piper asked, "Was it Marion?" She guessed.

"Friedman, actually," Allen corrected, "I trusted Marion, don't get me wrong, but Marion by necessity knew a great deal. If he'd been compromised, I wanted to make sure I'd survive the ensuing shit show."

"Was this when you went under with the Reapers?" It seemed like the natural next question to ask, but all of a sudden any sense of casualness left Allen's face.

It was as if he suddenly remembered what story he was telling, or even that it was his.

"No," Allen shook his head, "If you want to get technical I never went undercover with the Reapers."

"But you said…" Piper started.

"It's complicated," Allen evaded, reassuring her, "But I'll explain when we get to that part of the story."

"So, what was your cover?"

"Owen Matthews, I was the chief of personal security for an American ambassador to Russia by the name of Connor Martin." Allen shook his head and let out a humorless chuckle. "I didn't know it at the time, but I went to school with Connor. I didn't recognize him but he recognized me."

"That's luck," Piper said, not really knowing how to respond.

"It was a potential disaster is what it was." Allen shook his head again. "If Connor was any less level headed, my cover would have been blown. If Connor wasn't every bit the hardened, ice-veined, never let them see you sweat soldier he was, we would have been DO fucking A."

"What happened next?"

"Nothing. For the next month, I was Owen Matthews, the personal security to Connor Martin, and if that had been life rather than Allen Marks, it would have been business as usual."

"I'm guessing it wasn't that simple."

"Well, every machine eventually gets clubbed with a wrench."

"What was the wrench?"

"Katia Volkova."

* * *

Somebody tried to kill Connor Martin.

It happens. There are attempts on the lives of ambassadors all the time - terrorists, assassins, crazy nut jobs. Luckily Owen Matthews was there to keep his charge safe.

What doesn't happen is an American ambassador being attacked in the the best defended building in Moscow. In the interest of avoiding an international embarrassment, the KGB assigned one of their best to Connor Martin's security detail.

That happens, too. In fact, it was common for there to be two details on high level ambassadors, one from home to keep them safe and one from where they are visiting to keep the world from crying negligence.

What doesn't happen, what shouldn't happen, what would only happen on Owen Matthew's watch, is an American ambassador falling in love with a Russian spy.

Of all the wrenches, to all the machines, in all the world, she had to club fucking Owen Matthew's.


	3. Chapter 3

Connor Martin and Owen Matthews standing next to each other were like dusk and dawn, similar but at opposite ends of the spectrum.

While Mr. Matthews seemed to tower over his charge, that was more due to Connor Martin's lack of height rather than Matthews' moderately above average height.

Both had short hair, but while Connors was still long enough to style, Matthews was cut military short.

Even their attire displayed the differences they were trying to impress.

Every detail of Connor's suit said "I have a personal tailor I know so well by now, there's a fair chance he'll be the best man at my wedding," whereas Matthew's suit said, "I was one of four dozen purchased at a discount store during a clearance sale."

In short, they looked like brothers actively trying to not look alike.

"Is this necessary?" Connor asked his bodyguard.

"You can complain if you'd like," Matthews reminded him, "But ever since Sergei Ivanov, the Kremlin has been a bit paranoid. I doubt they'd listen."

Connor pouted, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I don't need another babysitter."

"But the Kremlin insists you need another bodyguard."

"Do you know who they're sending?" Connor asked.

"A woman by the name of Katia Volkov."

"Actually," a new voice interrupted, "It's Volkova"

The moment Connor Martin laid his eyes on Katia Volkova, he was smitten. It was painfully obvious to Owen Matthews. His eyes raked over her from the top of her midnight black hair, to the bottom of her shoes, the most practical pair a formal outfit could allow for. But thankfully Miss Volkova was blissfully oblivious to Connor's stare, given she was currently glaring at Owen Matthews.

"I apologize for my bodyguard's manners," Connor said with a degree of sincerity that was almost comic. "I will endeavor to teach him better."

"It's a common enough mistake," Miss Volkova replied, "But try not to make it too often, others may not be as accepting as I."

When Miss Volkova turned to shake her new charges hand, she too appeared smitten on the spot, a fact once again painfully obvious to Matthews, but one Connor was oblivious to as he now occupied the role of glaring at the other man.

That sound you might be hearing is the proverbial wrench being smacked into a well oiled machine.

* * *

It had been one week since Katia had joined Matthews as Connor's personal security.

At this exact moment, Connor and Katia were playing cards, waiting for an appropriate time to leave for their next appointment. Matthews, for his part, waited and prayed for his misery to end.

"You can't play that card." Katia rebuked Connor gently.

"What?" Connor frowned. "But it's the same rank -"

Katia hushed him. "But it's not the same suit as my card."

"But what about earlier? You played…."

"That was the trump suit."

"Okay, next time I pick the card game."

Connor shook his head with a grin, throwing the hand not holding cards into the air.

"It's more fun when it's played with more people," Katia told him, "And when there's alcohol flowing."

"Whaddya say, Matthews," Connor asked his friend in the corner, "Wanna join us for a hand?"

Matthews ignored to request, electing instead to offer his services as a gofer, "I can go ask the kitchens what kind of 'refreshments' they have available."

"I could drink," Connor observed, "Whaddya say, Kat? It's five o'clock somewhere."

"What did you call me?" Kaita asked, her head tilting, but her smile not fading.

"Kat," Connor repeated, his grin dropping like a rock, "Should I not of? I apologize, it's just…"

"No, no, no," Katia cut-in, "It was just unexpected is all."

Connor tried again, "I'm sorry it's just…"

"I said it's fine," Katia insisted, a little more firmly, "I like it."

"So you don't mind?"

"Not in the slightest."

Matthews quietly hopped that they would send him to get drinks, if only so that he could throw one in his eyes.

"So back to the original question," Connor backtracked, "Five o'clock somewhere?"

"You have a busy day to be getting drunk," Katia reminded him.

Connor looked a little indignant. "Who said anything about getting drunk. I'm just talking about a little something to take the edge off."

"You are a lightweight," Matthews piped up from his corner, "Sir" he added as an afterthought.

Connor looked over to his bodyguard and settled back in his chair. "So, he does make jokes."

"Who's joking?"

* * *

Piper smiled. "They sound sweet."

"They were sickeningly sweet," Allen confirmed, downing a glass of water in one swift chug. "Constantly making goo-goo eyes at each other."

"It's kind of romantic," Piper said, almost as if she were trying to slip the words past his notice, "two people on different sides, with only love to keep them together."

"Yeah," Allen nodded with a scowl, "A regular Montague and Capulet, with the capacity for twice as much tragedy."

"What's a Capulet?"

"Long story," Allen dismissed the mention with a wave of his hand, "The point is that Katia was a danger to my operations in Russia."

"What was your goal, anyway?" Piper asked, "You didn't say."

"Well," Allen raised his hands up, thumbs together, as if he was framing something, "The KGB was the best intelligence outfit in the world next to the CIA. They either had something to do with the recent string of compromised ops we were suffering or they knew something about it."

He let his arms fall to his side. He said, "I was deep enough that I could do some basic snooping without raising too many eyebrows, but Katia was constant supervision, and neither my people nor the KGB would respond to well to learning that she fell for an American."

"Why not?" Piper asked, "It seems harmless."

"Katia wasn't a normal soldier, or even a normal bodyguard, she was the KGB's finest," Allen stressed "Imagine a Paladin from the Brotherhood falling for an Institute Synth."

"Oh," Piper said, as that was really all that could be said, "OH!"

"The KGB wouldn't like it, the CIA would try to exploit it, and the three of us would get caught in the crossfire."

"So what did you do?"

"What any good friend does," Allen said as if it were obvious, "Constantly say that it was a bad idea and enable them every step of the way."

* * *

"If I say that this is a bad idea of historic proportions, would that be grave enough?" Matthews asked as he adjusted his tie.

Under the guise of sightseeing, Connor Martin and his bodyguard were wandering the streets of Moscow unimpeded by Miss Volkova.

"I know it's a bad idea," Connor hissed back, "I understand that."

"Clearly you don't," Matthews chastised his charge, "Otherwise you would be doing literally anything else."

"Look," Connor started, physically stopping his friend, "I know it's foolish but the heart…"

"If you say the heart wants what the heart wants," Matthews interrupted him, "I'll snap your neck."

"The heart doesn't take orders," Connor finished, a glare clear on his face.

"No," Matthews admitted, "But the mind and the body do. So I find myself wondering why you can't keep it reeled in."

"Listen," Connor pleaded, "I'm sorry, but it is what it is."

"And it's a bad idea."

"Na -" Connor was cut off by Matthews's glare. "Owen," he corrected, continuing at his bodyguard's nod, "I'm not asking for your blessing or approval."

"But you are asking for my help."

"Yes."

Owen Matthews rubbed his eyes in resignation, an action he had been doing so often lately he was legitimately worried he was causing damage to them.

"I'll keep this out of my reports, but it's only a matter of time until somebody finds out."

"What happens then?"

"It depends on who finds out and how much," Matthews shrugged at that, "Maybe Miss Volkova gets reassigned to some mind numbing post and we get a new KGB babysitter, maybe we get pressured into using your relationship with her to get more access to KGB intel."

"Yeah, but we're not going to do that," Connor said confidently, "Right?"

All Matthews gave him in response was a very pointed glare.

"Oh, come on!"

"This is bigger than you or her." Matthews pressed, trying to make him understand.

"But is it bigger than me and her?" Connor asked, as if the conjunction changed everything.

"Yes," Matthews replied decisively.

"But that's just if they find out right?"

"Right." Matthews confirmed.

"And that's a big if, right?"

"Right."

* * *

Owen Matthews meant it. He had no intention of telling the CIA about Katia and Connor. But what was that saying about God laughing at plans?

The thing about Katia Volkova was that she was one of the KGB's finest and the thing about Allen Marks was that he was one of the CIA's best. You could wrap them in as many fake names, haircuts, dye jobs, and choppy Russian pronunciations as possible - in the end the best could just kind of sense each other.

And while Katia Volkova may have been distracted by Connor Martin, eventually she did what she was best at and found out Owen Matthews wasn't Owen Matthews

They were at a charity benefit when Katia Volkova played her hand.

* * *

For the first time since they had arrived in Russia, Owen Matthews was not primarily concerned with the well being of his charge. Not that the security at the benefit they were attending was that good - quite frankly, it was atrocious and made Matthews question how Russia hadn't lost the war by now.

No, Matthews wasn't concerned about Connor because he was more concerned about himself.

Katia was glaring at him. Sour stares were nothing new but there was a new tinge to these. Fear, something about Matthews made Katia afraid today. That was what was new.

Matthews was left to question what caused this difference for most of the evening. It was only after he downed his third plate of stress-related tiger prawns that Katia finally confronted him.

She walked up to him and handed him a picture, one of Allen Marks, though she couldn't have known that much.

There he was in the photograph, black skull bandana on and all, lying prone with a sniper rifle, lining up a shot that would soon kill Sergei Ivanov.

"Should these mean anything to me?" Matthews asked steadily as he handed the picture back to Katia.

"If you were any kind of security expert they would," Katia said, "That's the only known photograph of the man who killed Sergei Ivanov, one of Russia's finest sons."

"If you're telling me to be better at my job," Matthews replied, "Your concern is noted."

"What I'm telling you, Mr. Matthews," the way she said his name made it clear she knew it was fake, "Is that I won't let you lay one hand on Connor."

"What if I'm pulling him out of the way of a bus?" Matthews asked, concealing every iota of panic.

"I'm not here to listen to you be smart, _mudak_ ," Katia stepped close and pressed a blade to Matthews' side, "I'm here to get you to deliver a message."

Matthews never flinched as Katia went on.

"Tell the Reapers that Connor is under my protection and they won't lay a hand on him."

* * *

"So what'd you do?" Piper asked, pulling Allen out of his narrative, "She found you out."

Allen shook his head, grinning at the memories, "She found out what we planned on her finding out."

"I don't understand."

"The best kind of cover," Allen explained, gesturing as though he held something, "is like an onion. It isn't just one disguise." He moved as though to peel back a layer, "After you strip away one layer there's another waiting for you."

"That's why the CIA gave you a new identity" Piper deduced, "Not just Owen, but Allen. You were originally Nathan something, right?"

"Exactly," Allen confirmed with a snap and a point, "Beneath Owen the bodyguard, was Owen the career criminal, beneath him Allen Marks CIA, and beneath him Nathan Wake."

"So you did go undercover with the Reapers!" Piper once again guessed, "Or am I still missing something?"

"I haven't gotten to that part yet," Allen said, grinning at his own crypticness. "'Cause here's the thing - Katia decided to tell Connor about what she thought she had discovered about Owen."

"I'm guessing that's bad."

"Yeah."

* * *

That was bad.

As in the KGB found out Katia had fallen for an American ambassador, found her intel on Owen Matthews that led to the three of them running through the streets of St. Petersburg with a KGB hit squad hot on their ass kind of bad.

But let's not waste time on the boring details.

"We should be safe here." Katia said, leading the two men into a cellar. "This isn't a KGB safe house, it'll take them a while to find it."

"What kind of armory does it have?" Matthews asked, looking around the room before making his way towards a TV.

"A Makarov and a box of ammo," Katia admitted, "If I tried to stockpile weapons, my employers would have noticed."

"Fair enough," he said with a shrug, turning the tv on and flipping to the news.

"So what now?" Connor asked, "Not like being chased by spies with guns isn't fun, but how do we not die?"

"We watch the news," Matthews said.

"Why?" asked Katia.

"To see if my bluff worked."

Matthews continued to watch the news while Katia and Connor talked.

"You should just let me kill him." Katia suggested, very quietly.

"He's a friend."

"He's a Reaper," she insisted.

"No, he's not."

"He killed Sergei Ivanov."

Katia showed Connor the picture.

"No," Owen shook his head furiously, "He didn't, he wouldn't, he's a good man."

"Men change."

Matthews, apparently, was getting sick of being talked about.

"My name is Allen Marks," he said suddenly, turning away from the tv. "I'm CIA. I'm in deep cover investigating a prominent threat to CIA operations. We've been compromised on a fundamental level."

"Why tell me this?" Katia demanded. "Why should I trust this?"

"Because right now the only people with a gun to Connor's head is the KGB." Allen stood up, "They won't hesitate to exploit him and you as well, but if you trust me right now, I'll get the two of you free and clear. Never to be a harassed by the KGB and time considered served by the CIA."

Katia didn't hesitate. "Name your price."

"Intel," it was all Allen needed, "has anyone tried to sell the KGB on a way to hurt the CIA? A real way, something that they claimed could bring us all down?"

Katia grinned. An easy price apparently.

"About a month ago," Katia explained, making her way to a drawer and pulling out a holotape. "The KGB was approached by a Ukrainian separatist group…"

* * *

"I'll spare you the details."

"I wouldn't understand them," Piper admitted, "Just being honest about that."

"In a nutshell," Allen tried to explain, "The various intercontinental crime rings were gathering for a summit, a rising star had been selling them on the idea of eliminating the CIA as a world intelligence power, telling them America would be easier to trade in without them. KGB didn't know much, just the location, the players, and the rumor that the salesman was a CIA turncoat. The summit was to be held a month from the time I got the intel."

"So, she traded her and Connor's safety for the Intel," Piper deduced.

Allen just nodded.

"What did you do?" she asked.

"What we do best," he answered, "Told an elaborate lie, spun an elaborate story. Made it seem like Owen Matthews kidnapped Connor, on behalf of the Reapers to hold for ransom. Made it seem like Katia died protecting Connor."

"Is this finally when you went undercover with the Reapers?"

Allen shook his head, clearly he had got to the part of the story he was dreading.

"The Reapers weren't just my cover."

* * *

The problem, as it always is, was resources.

Just like winning a war needs bullets and bombs, winning an intelligence war needs blackmail and bribes.

Everything costs money and the CIA could only be given so much before they looked suspicious.

This was their solution: there were millions, billions even, in drugs, weapons, and international kidnapping rings. Plus when you sell guns, you keep a thumb on the pulse of the people who need them.

Make money, gather intel, all the while providing an air tight cover on why your doing something illegal that can't be traced back to the US Army or even the CIA.

Allen didn't go undercover with the Reapers for the CIA, the CIA went undercover as the Reapers.


	4. Chapter 4

It should have been raining.

Prague, September 5th, 2073 was a dark day. Multitudes of innocent civilians got caught in the crossfire of a gangwar nobody saw coming.

Prague, September 5th, 2073 was the day the world's eyes opened to a new war, a war they never thought they'd have to care about. But there it was - in Prague.

Thousands dead, innocent and criminal alike, and the Reapers' reign began. No city, no government, no one was truly safe from them. Because what the Reapers wanted, they took.

So yes, September 5th, 2073 should not have been a sunny day with a light breeze keeping everybody cool and comfortable.

It should have been raining.

* * *

There was something about voices on a radio that made everything sound more official.

"Sync."

There were God only knows how many teams spread through the city, each one of them needed to start at the same exact time.

"Sync."

Bombs had been planted, snipers were in position, assault teams on standby.

"Sync."

Agent Marks and his team were going after the Salesman, kill or capture, as long as the traitors were neutralized.

"Sync."

It was almost time; everybody had the bandanas on, everybody had their parts and props. All that was left was to go.

"Sync."

That was the last one.

"Everybody on my mark." Marion's voice crackled through the radio, there was a brief pause. "Mark."

Agent Marks and his team were in a van in front of a hotel and then very suddenly they weren't.

There were security guards who tried to stop them. Then there weren't.

The hotel's restaurant was filled with crime bosses, then those crime bosses were filled with bullets.

Agent Marks thought he had the Salesman in his sights and then he didn't. Because Agent Marks recognized him - he knew the Salesman.

Lynch, it was Lynch, a man Agent Marks once trusted. And now didn't.

A man he pursued up the stairs of the hotel and onto the roof.

He didn't know what he expected when he cornered Lynch on the roof, but it wasn't what he found.

Lynch was sitting on the edge, his legs dangling over the street below.

"Have I ever told you where I was born, Nathan?" Lynch asked his former friend. "Vegas, I was born in Vegas. I've always been one to play the odds, wager more than anyone could afford to lose." The man shook his head, staring out over the streets. "Not this time."

Lynch stood up and turned on Marks.

"Marion thinks we can win the war if we play our cards right." Lynch shrugged, "And maybe he's right, Nathan, maybe we can. But what then?!" Lynch shoved a finger at Agent Marks' chest. "It never ends, there's never a final war!"

Lynch turned around and pointed at the streets below, gunfire from the other teams echoing.

"This is it, Nathan, this is the future! Mankind escalates, every time we think there's been a war to end all wars a worse one comes! Soon the only thing left to escalate to will be the nukes!" Lynch reeled around, turning in circles.

"I won't bet humanity's future on America bringing peace to the world!" he declared. "I won't! The world needs a restart, and in can't do that with giants like America, China, Russia, or England hanging over us. They need to end!"

Lynch turned on Agent Marks one last time.

"Say something!" he pleaded. All Agent Marks did was site Lynch and pull the trigger.

"You never were one for speeches," that was all Lynch managed to cough out before the end.

Agent Lynch used to be a good man. Then he wasn't

* * *

"So there it is." Allen said,spinning a empty glass on the table, "that's the whole story. Why the bandanna, what I learned and how I learned it."

Piper didn't know when he stopped telling her the story and just started telling for the sake of telling.

"You know what the worst part is?"

"What?"

"I can't help but think he was right in the end."

Allen held his hand out, gesturing not to the bar but to the world in general.

"Just look, here it is. The nukes got used, exactly what we were trying to avoid." He thumbed his nose. "And that's why I gotta do this, Piper, that's why I gotta keep moving. Find Shaun, ya'know? He was the best, purest part of me." Allen rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Maybe if I keep him - keep that part of me alive, I'd be more than one of the people who made all…" he gestured around him, "this."

Piper opened her mouth and closed it again quickly.

"I need some sleep," Allen admitted, standing up, "Back at it tomorrow."

He started for the rooms.

"Hey, Blue?" Piper called to his back.

"Yeah?" Allen turned his head, but didn't fully turn around.

Like an illiterate with a thesaurus, Piper was at a loss for words. All she managed to muscle out was, "Sleep well."

Allen gave a tired half-grin.

"Will do," he promised, giving her a little two fingered wave.


End file.
